Joel - The inside story
by randommeandu
Summary: Joel is a survivor from the initial waves of infection of the deadly cordyceps virus. With limited resources and almost no one to trust, Joel has to face decisions that will change him forever. This story explores (with potentiality) such decisions Joel would have faced whilst recovering from the loss of his home, his beloved daughter Sarah, and the disbandment between his brother.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own The Last Of Us, nor do I represent the views of the creators or developers of the game.

Amid the destruction of our past

You stand

A look of anger, a look of fear

The beads of sweat trickling down to your beard

To the tips of your fingers, tracing the trigger,

Unyeilding

The palms of your hands jaded,

Forever crimson from the stains of blood

The blood that remains as a harsh reminder of your guilt

A painting as feverish as the phantasm of Lady Macbeth

The fear that imparts you to anguish

That inflames your transgressions;

Your acts of theft, smuggling and murder

Taking the lives of those undaunted,

And those unloving, unloved, unliving

The lives of the infected.

Joel admired the scatter of light upon the earth. It upheld a beauty that was only observed in nature. He loved how the sunlight danced on his face, how drops from the waterfall cleansed his hair, how the leaves in Autumn fell from grace, despite the omen of Winter's hasty approach. Now it was Spring. Swathes of grass protruding from the rubble had birthed clusters of flowers. Fauna flourished in broad daylight, claiming home to the abandoned buildings. For the first time in years, he strolled.

Looking amongst the dilapidated buildings, the flooded streets and the tousles of vegetation growing up the side of houses, Joel was still working on believing this as the world of his reality. How could something so genuine and normal become jarred beyond recognition? His eyes were quick to adjust to the ever-changing tapestry around him; a trait for which he was thankful, and had many a time saved him from danger. Around nature, Joel was in his prime element.

The smell of pine lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of nectar that reminded him of the sweet grass back home. Texas was one of the remaining places that'd remained virtually unchanged since before the array of bombs came raining out of the sky. Of course, it was less abundant in rudiments and people, but on the whole, still discernably Texas. The thought of home only provoked feelings of pain and regret, loss and fear that would often send him into fits of emotional turmoil.

He needed another drink.

Joel was in no short supply of alcohol, what with his growing collection of Molotov cocktails for any malicious particulars who decided to get in his way, but it was now a necessity for survival. To forget the past - even for the briefest of moments - was like lifting the burden that threatened to crush him each passing day. And it wasn't easy.

He produced a bottle of whiskey from his bag, threw his head back and tipped the remaining tablespoon of fiery liquid down his throat.

He strolled amongst the flowers, enjoying the the warmth from the noon sun and the taste of liquor upon his lips. He cracked open another bottle for good measure, longing for the burning sensation at the back of his throat.

In his mild stupor he began to wonder how many people were actually still alive. He knew of many various groups, but surely not enough to re-colonise and re-populate the planet? Caught in trance marvelling at a herd of gazelle, he entertained the idea that he was the last man on earth, overlooking humanity's destruction and the healing hand of nature as it overcame the buildings and reclaimed the land once abundant with human activity.

With a struggled dismissive wave of his hand he tried physically wiping the thought from his mind, which had grown slightly foggier, and he could feel himself beoming more vacuous with each passing moment. He knew it was dangerous being in such a state; he was vulnerable to sudden attack; but something in the air told him no harm was promised today. He chuckled a hearty chuckle, finding his loss of visual depth amusing. He peered down at the ground, watching the earth undulate, bulge and taper for several seconds before the inviting grass came rushing up to meet his face.

Joel awoke to voices off to his left. He had rolled into a steep embankment amongst a cluster of thick plantation, which had done well concealing his body. An ache erupted in his thigh, revealing that he had slept on the hard bulk of his machette. Fortuitously, the effects of a searing hangover were absent, providing him an opportunity to focus.

"-out him, we wouldn't be in this goddam mess," A man's voice hissed from above.

"It's not his fault. He's just a kid, Richard," Another replied, male also.

Joel peeled his way through the silken grass, peering just over the rise of the embankment, trying to get an impression of his intruders. One was tall and lean, hesitant around his companion, exhibiting his inferiority. The other was broad and imposing, the vast selection of holstered weaponry and body language exuding the aura of a leader.

Joel contemplated his next move. Confronting them was out of the question. Judging by the abhorrent physique of the superior and his array of deadly tools, it was best not to attack headlong. He needed another approach.

Meanwhile the two men continued their conversation.

"I don't give a shit about whether he's a kid or not. Kids steal. They lie, they cheat, and they squander, if not more so than adults." The burly man said, bunching his hands into tight fists.

Joel could see the anger building up inside him, the pursed lips, the crooked expression, the precipitation gathering on his forehead.

"Christ Richard, nobody's perfect. Give the boy a chance to make himself useful. After all, I think Philip has taken a liking to him," The taller reasoned.

"I don't care what Philip thinks. That boy is a danger to us all. If we let him stay, he could turn on us in his sleep."

Joel soundlessly removed his bag from his shoulders, and took out a prepared Molotov cocktail. His hand went for his right breastpocket, producing a set of matches. On second thought, he also removed his shotgun from its holster. The fire would be more of a distraction, the shotgun would ensure them both quick, short-pain-lived deaths. He then proceeded to strike the phosphorous head, taking care in restricting the kenspeckle scratch-like noise.

A brilliant burst of red flame emitted on the first attempt, and Joel placed the flaming match on the old wick rag, which instantly caught alight. He threw the bottle in a deadly arc, aiming to hit the space of ground between the two unaware men.

Joel, not for the first time, watched in amazement and horror as the once standing men were now on the ground, writhing in unbearable pain and screaming at the top of their lungs. But their pain was temporary. The shotgun, ever effective, silenced them at once, ceasing their howling and squirming.

The explosive sound of the gunshot echoed for miles around, frightening a distant herd of gazelle, which dispersed West, into the heart of the forsaken city of Chicago.

Joel walked over to the two charred corpses and stamped out the flames, dually proud and disgusted with his handiwork. Was this what the world had come to? Where people, in the absence of widespread governance and money, had to kill each other for food? He had a choice of course, but betting his life on the odds that these two men wouldn't do the same wasn't worth it. The military was only so effective in excercising legislation, and many people who escaped the quarantine zones had established groups and rules of their own to survive. Joel had been in several of such groups. Over time, he realised their mentality was the same; kill or be killed. Darwinism - may the best and most successful survive. And he was subscribed to this same dog-eat-dog philosophy.

Sometimes it was better to assume the worst in people. At least, that was how Joel had survived through many years. Three of the eight years since he left Boston had been spent in solitude, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts, most of which tended towards his past. Joel's early days of survival saw him persuading himself to find tasks with which to distract himself and ignore his thoughts; the most efficacious of such tasks being driven towards alcoholism.

It began ensuing the death of his beloved daughter and only child, Sarah. Without his brother Tommy's assistance in finding solace for his insufferable pain, Joel was certain he would have continued down a very dark and twisted path. For a while, he found consolation within, taking upon himself the need to care for his little brother. Even the drinking stopped.

But then Tommy too left him, claiming a new hope, a new dream of pursual. Joel could remember their last argument all too well. "I don't ever want to see your goddam face again!" Were his brother's final words, ad verbatim. Tommy wanted to join the 'Fireflies', a seditious militia group calling for the return of all branches of governement, adverse to martial law and military junta. Joel was upset. He had taken care of his little brother, provided him food, water, a roof over his head...and it was returned with little appreciation, if not nowise.

And so, a few weeks following Tommy's boorish departure, Joel gradually slipped back to the bottle. For a while he didn't go outside. What was the point? He'd thought. The Human population was in shambles, essentials such as food and water diminishing at rapid pace. Joel was surprised it'd even lasted this long.

Joel searched the bodies for useful items, accumulating revolver and rifle ammunition. Among their persons were bags full of canned food, water and tape, all undamaged from the flames. He recovered a photo from the hefty man's pocket. Even though it was burnt at the edges, he was still able to descry the face of a middle-aged woman - presumably the man's spouce. Joel had gone long enough practicing indifference to actually become so, and thus unsurprisingly felt nothing looking upon the photo. He tossed it away as he would a used cigarette, letting it trail in the wind like a memory lost in the plethura of sleep.

He continued towards Chicago city, Westbound on a journey that never ended. Ever the sole-nomadic traveller, Joel was on the constant move, and so would have remained had it not been for Tess.

Once one of the most populous city in the United States, after New York City and Los Angeles, holding about 2.7 million residents, the city of Chicago was a place of cultural diversity, peace and prosper. The wind for which it was well remembered by now swept over the city's lonely skeletal body, gathering dust and paper and spitting them Eastward in fury. Cars ziggzaged the streets, some abandoned by their owners, others restraining unfortunate occupants who were not able to escape in time. Each turn recited stories of betrayal, misfortune, grief and lost hope.

Only in the cities could you truly understand the essence of this disaster. For Joel it was a surprise to receive hints of vehicular vapor, however before realisation that the outskirts, whereinto he was heading, were occupied by a military dictatorship force, that empowered its use with militant vehicles and sometimes even helicopters. To Joel's discerning eye, this group had done particularly poorly in securing the perimeter; a lack of guards and surrounding low-border fences absent of barbed wire and automated weaponry told him that much. It wasn't until Joel managed to get inside that he got an understanding of the situation. Even post-infection, Chicago had a large number of inhabitants who had avoided contracting the Cordyceps pandemic. This small bearable portion of Chicago city was packed.

Iron gates preceeded the entrance into the ashphalt jungle, giving way to a fenced maze that brought him to a tollgate and a manual ingress. The stern guard manning it gave Joel a scan over, confiscated his weaponry for the time he spent inside the city, and then he was granted access to the city. Almost immediately Joel was hit by a wave of unwashed human flesh; a repulsive smell that made the air from which he breathed heavy in his lungs. Before him stood a river of body grimy hands, wide bloodshot eyes and skin that hadn't experienced a decent bath in a few days.

A whole crowd had gathered to see their newcomer. Most bared their teeth at the sight of him, angered by his presence. Others either stared inert or ignored him completely. He returned the writhing, hissing horde his prosaic impassive stare, unphased by the looks they gave him. Had these people ever been outside the zone?

A hand grabbed the side of his bag. Joel wrenched it free, grabbed it by the bony wrist and pulled his attacker into view. It was a young solven woman, almost his height and donned in bedraggled clothes. Joel could feel the water flowing from her hand to his. At least, he hoped it was water. She wore a mixed look of anger, fright and desperation. Joel threw her hand away, and continued to the nearest tavern. The crowd followed him to the door. He quickly leapt the steps and jumped inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Withindoors, Joel received a vile effluvium of alcohol mixed with sweat. The place was dim lit by a single flickering bulb and had boarded windows, refusing the outside light to enter, consequently polluting the room in a fine layer of dust. Joel sat upon one of the barstools and kept his eyesight focused away from any prompting eyes of people looking for an easy fight. If they wanted one, they'd have to directly confront him, and Joel was sure his build was imposing enough to warn them it was not a good idea. The bartender serving behind the counter leaned forward into view, his figure previously concealed in the shadows of the overhanging oakwood beams.

"Good afternoon sir, what will it be?" He said throatily.

Joel liked him almost immediately. Straight to the point, no personal questions asked.

"Uh, one pint of lager please," Joel requested.

"Sure."

While the man disappeared, Joel snuck a quick glance at the regulars. Laughing from the alcove off to the left were a couple of rotund men with several empty glasses strewn about their table. Somewhere behind him sat a lone elderly man, nursing a half-pint of beer. Not a particularly wide variety of people, but that didn't matter.

Joel was interrupted by the plunk of glass upon table. He turned back to the counter.

"One pint of lager," said the bartender, " that'll be fourteen bucks."

Joel hesitated. Cognizant, he leaned over the counter and asked in a lowered voice, "D'you do ration cards?"

"Oh, yeah we do those as well. For the time being anyway." He checked around him before adding, "There are rumors that the government is shortchanging us, y'know? Withholding stock for control. But what can I do? I've got a family to feed."

Joel nodded sympathetically whilst slipping the bartender a ration card.

He then took his drink where he sat, fascinating himself with the way the light played on the mahogany of the table. He forced himself to take feeble sips, not out of etiquette but of the fact he hadn't tasted quality beer in a while. No point in wasting a ration card over good beer. And it was.

Suddenly, the door swung open, permitting a cool breeze from the outside that tickled the nape of Joel's neck. He twisted to face the newcomer, a woman, possibly in her late twenties, lean and muscular, her head topped with brown frizzy hair. She lithed over to the counter, ignoring oncoming looks and greeted the bartender, plonking herself on a stool next to Joel.

"Make it a bourben on the rocks Freddy," She said, her mezzo-soprano voice somewhere between a grumble and a sigh.

Joel kept his gaze down, shifting his glass between his fingers. The woman brought with her a pleasant attar that lingered in the air, nulling the stale stench of perspiration and eructation. His eyes found miniscule grooves in the wooden tabletop. He traced them furtively until he realised she was looking directly at him, a curious smile playing on her lips.

"You okay?"

Joel realised he was still recovering slightly from the deaths of the two men earlier and the agitated crowd, and his behaviour was thus affected - not just in the presence of the woman - without him really thinking about it.

"Uh, yeah... I'm fine," He replied; a weak attempt at secreting his emotions.

To his expectation, the woman detected this immediately.

"You don't look it," She said, taking a swig of her newly-placed drink. "I haven't seen you before. You an outsider?" She added.

It was only now that Joel noticed her slight Southern accent.

He nodded. "Just passing through. I'm not planning on stayin' for long."

"Why is that?"

"Let's just say it's not the type of town I'm used to."

The woman chortled, tapped the counter for a refill.

"Yeah, this isn't the most pleasant of towns, what with it being under a military dictatorship and all," She said.

"You sure got that right," replied the bartender, handing her a replenished glass.

"Cheers Freddy. You're from Texas, aren't you?" The woman addressed Joel.

"Yes, I am."

"I could recognise that accent anyday. I'm from the one star state myself."

Joel felt his eyebrows raise, in spite of his assumption about the woman's vernacular beforehand, now confirmed.

"What brings you here, of all places?" She questioned.

Joel took a sip of his rather untouched lager. "Um, I really don't know."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's just...somewhere to visit, I guess."

An uncomfortable silence followed.

"So how long have you been here?" Joel asked, not really interested in keeping conversation but did it out of politeness.

"Oh, about as long as you have. Arrived just this morning. I tend to travel a bit myself." She replied.

He nodded. For many, it was difficult to settle somewhere, as for him there were always triggers that reminded him of the past. But some triggers were worse than others. Joel kept the watch his daughter Sarah had given him, on the night she died as a keepsake momento, and it still worked to this day. It was a way of revitalising her presence in the back of his mind, so that he wouldn't forget. But there were also the heavy, onerous feelings associated with it, as an innocent, kind-hearted birthday gift suddenly became something of a much deeper emotional value. The watch was both a blessing and a curse, something that would remain with him until he died.

The woman then stood up, moving to leave.

"Been nice talking to you..." She waited for a name.

"Joel," He responded. "And you?"

"Call me Tess," she said.

"Ok then,"

"See ya, Texas."

With that, she left the tavern, marching swiftly out the door, her soft brown hair sweeping behind her.

Joel chuckled at her last remark. He hadn't had an extensive conversation such as this since Tommy was under his wing. But in terms of prating with women, that would've been many years before, about the time he was working as a carpenter. He'd always been cautious around women, especially his mother, whose controlling, manipulative temperament made him develop a subtle misogyny. He suspected it was part of the reason why Sammantha, Sarah's mother, left him. He was too quick to pout and argue, his anger perhaps coming across as unmitigated hatred. She'd moved to New York, and later married a successful assistant banker there. Sarah would sometimes fly out and visit her for a week, however Joel mainly did the parenting. Sammantha died as well as her daughter on the night of the outbreak - hardly making it through Madison Square before the bombs vaporised her body along with thousands of others. Her distraught father, Kenneth, who lived as a widower in Texas had brought him the news.

Joel wasn't sure what to feel. He'd still had feelings for his ex-wife, but honestly much of it was rather obscure, and mourning her death seemed a bit pretentious. He'd moved on, directing his attention towards raising Sarah. He tried as much as possible between builds to satisfy his daughter; watching her football matches, hiking through the beautiful Wichita Falls, at one point a holiday cruise to the Bahamas - just the two of them. Together.

And then, on 23rd September 2013, calamity struck. Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, a mutated parasitic fungal virus, spread from infected crops to the human species. That afternoon, the pandemic reached from coast to coast in a matter of hours. Authorities had little time to react to the outbreak. In just seven months, 64% of the global human population was decimated or infected by the virulent cordyceps virus. The speed of diffusion was surreal, as though it was an act of God. Cordyceps fungi thrived in enclosed areas such as the cities and underground subways. New York was hit first. In just three hours, San Francisco was inundated. In an attempt to escape, Joel asked for help from his brother Tommy to take Sarah and he to a safehouse outside Travis County. Unfortunately, the road there was already placed under a military blockade, and they were forced to take Highway 71 out. But everyone else had had the same damned idea. Escaping an oncoming wave of infected from the hospital nearby, they cut through a burning town, where they collided heavily with another pickup. Joel had awoken to Sarah's cries, discovering that infected were extremely close and that her leg was broken in the crash. Heading off on foot, Joel walked with Sarah cradled in his arms like when she was a baby, through a nightmarish vision of hell. Military helicopters whirred overhead, people sprinting every which way, and their chances of escape were wearing thin. Joel and Sarah were separated from Tommy whilst being chased by a hoard of infected. A hesitant soldier gunned them down. Joel was hit in the thigh, but Sarah didn't come off as well. Tommy came to the rescue, but by then it was already too late. There was no way to save Sarah. He picked her up, pointlessly reassuring her it was going to be okay, trying to stop the blood from flowing out her body. She died crying in his arms under the stars, his hands covered in her blood.

Sarah's death was incapacitating. Nothing hurt more inside than the anguish of losing his daughter. Feeling her slip away, her spirit deserting her lifeless body, into the realm of the unknown. That night, something changed in him, something that over time colloused him, permitted him to hurt and even kill for survival, something that to this day left him very few moral lines to cross.

At two minutes past three, Joel left the dramshop. He squinted in the afternoon light, regaining his balance. His shoes weighed as bags of sand as they shuffled over the floorboards, finding their way to the neighbouring bed-and-breakfast. He needed to rest if he wanted to make it to a settlement in South Dakota. He'd heard many positive things about this camp, the most captivating statement being a place for those seeking a second chance. Joel needed a second chance. At least, if he was planning on surviving for a while longer. In fact, for once he'd be able to focus on living; an ideal much more appealing than surviving.

The crowd had dispersed long ago, vanished in amongst the nondescript buildings. Joel caught sight of a military jeep moving east into an especially crowded section, followed by periodic shots of gunfire. Probably for control measures. Stifling the remnants of the rebellion. He paused, outside the entrance to the B&B, listening to the fight with the ears of an experienced hunter. Gunfire continued. Pockets of people were running indoors, others were taking to the furthermost alleyways.

"What the hell," Joel said, setting off to investigate.

He needed to make sure.

Suddenly, a bomb exploded a hundred feet away, sending a brilliant fireball that lit up the sky brighter than the sun. Joel ducked instinctively, feeling the heat on his face. Cries and shouts pervaded the streets. What the fuck was going on?

Hoards of frightened people spilled into the square. Cracks of gunfire brought them down, not twenty feet away.

"Holy shit," Joel said.

A feeling of dejavou overcame him, and he was back on the night of September 23rd 2013.

What are they running from? Sarah asked him.

Joel replied, "Infected."

He ran.

How the fuck had he not put two and two together? Overcrowded streets, unhealthy practices, poor security measures - this city was in prime condition for an outbreak to occur. Infection had struck again.

He ran westward, towards the city gates.

But as he apprehended, soldiers had already blocked the way out. Avoiding panick, Joel made his way back to the tavern. As soon as he tried the door, he felt a strong force jerk it back.

"Come on, let me in!"

The wailing grew louder, closer still. Joel pushed harder against the door, using his full upper strength. It gave a little, but not enough to fit through.

"Let me in damn it! I'm not infected!" He shouted.

No response. He was running out of time.

Joel pushed further into the city, following the crowds of people fleeing for their lives. Gunfire overhead. Victims falling around him, their cries echoing throughout the city. People were on fire, their faces of terror etched onto his eyeballs forever.

Trusting his instinct, Joel ducked into a narrow alleyway. He proceeded up a flight of steps on the side of a building, seeking a higher vision from the roof. Once there, he had a full panoramic of the disaster unfolding below. People screaming, running. Gunshots and hot explosions erupting from the pockets between buildings.

A pair of military black hawks thundered overhead, sending firebombs onto the streets below. Joel watched the nightmare of September 23rd unfold before him.

He could see people, who'd once regarded this place as a sort of haven, scrambling up the surrounding walls that held them captive, before being vaporised by the onslaught of hellfire. Sacrifice the few to save the many. But Joel could see too well that a plan driven by that same mentality was doomed to fail here. The houses caught alight with horrific ease, encompassing the whole Southern and Northern quadrants in a matter of minutes.

A cold hand grabbed his.

Joel ducked instinctively, thinking it was an infected, but when he turned, he saw it was a woman. Five foot-four, brown hair and a wicked frown drawn. It was Tess.

"Follow me if you want to live," She said, directing him back towards the stairs.

Joel didn't hesitate on her offer. He followed her down the stairs, back through the dimly-lit alleyway, into the side door of a nondescript building. The room was dark and lit by a single flickering bulb, the naked walls scathed with mold and vegetation overgrowth. Three other men donned with gas masks were there to meet them. Tess made for the aperture in the wall large enough for a human to crawl through. Joel followed, dubious at the presence of the masked trio.

"Don't mind them, they're helping us escape," Tess reassured him.

His feet struck mud. They were in a tunnel, lit by lanterns lined on the walls, stretching further than he could see. Tess was already moving ahead of him. The masked trio followed behind.

"Wait," Joel called, "What about my stuff?"

"You want to escape or be ripped apart by infected searching for your shit? Chances are, soldiers would have scavenged everything."

Her words were harsh but most likely true.

"Right," Joel said.

"Don't get sentimental about your fucking possesions. Best you know that now."

Joel hated that this woman was teaching him as if he were a child. He felt stupid.

"Here, put this on."

Tess handed him a spare gas mask.

Joel took it and slipped it around his head. Breathing through the mask was like breathing second-hand air, which felt heavy and scarily insufficient for his lungs. Joel had never been underground before. That's where the infection thrived. Warm, damp places, such as caves and subways and underground carparks, where the Cordyceps fungus could spread and burst through the concrete of the streets above.

Bombs shook the earth, sending fine mists of loose dirt upon them. Joel kept his vision trained on the path in front of him. The terrain underfoot changed constantly from concrete to mud, making the going no more nor any less harder.

"You're lucky I found you, Texas," Tess said, her distinctive humor returning.

"I suppose I am," Joel muttered.

It was only until now that he realised she was bleeding.

"You don't look so good though," He said. "Need help with that wound of yours?"

Tess looked at the scar on her arm and shrugged.

"It's nothing. I'll patch it up when we get out."

"And when exactly will that be?" Joel asked.

"Not long."

Below ground level, time had no meaning, even though Joel had his watch to refer to. What seemed like an hour also seemed like five minutes. The explosions became less and less audible, eventually disappearing completely. When he finally saw traces of sunlight playing on the metal bars of the gate preceeding the exit, he exhaled a small sigh of relief.

Tess stopped before the gate, turned to face him. The skin around her wound had turned an angry red.

"We're not in the clear yet. What we're about to enter is no man's land. The military has certain places mined, so just follow my lead," She said.

"Yes ma'am."

"Good," Tess said, unlocking the gate and throwing it wide. "Let's go."


End file.
